75. 75. 75.

I was sitting by myself at The Hopvine, drinking an IPA and reading The Stranger, when the man to my left struck up a conversation:

"What are you reading?"

I could tell he didn't care about what I was reading. 

I could also tell he wasn't from Seattle.  He was clean-shaven with round frame glasses and a corduroy jacket, and HE TALKED TO A WOMAN AT A BAR.  I guessed he was a recent transplant via another hipster enclave.

"I just came to Seattle last week.  I was living in New York."

"Which part?"

"Bushwick."

I'm soooo good.

We chatted for ten minutes, and he asked me what my plans for the weekend were.  Hiking, I explained to him.  Always hiking.

"Do you want to go to the Olympic Peninsula instead?  I really want to go to Cape Flattery."

I was torn.  I didn't want to go to the Olympic Peninsula, but driving a total of nine hours on a first date with a guy I'd known for ten minutes sounded like a damn good blog story, so I committed.  He walked me home, pulled me close, and tried to kiss me.  I- not being fond of making out with drunk men who I've just met- turned my head so his lips met my cheek.  Because I'm not awkward.

The next day he changed his mind, citing the distance as the problem.  "Do you have hiking shoes?" I asked, with the North Cascades on my mind.

He texted back, "I don't need hiking boots.  I like to go barefoot."

I rolled my eyes into my flip phone.  "It's muddy and cold."  I was not about to hike 10 miles with a barefoot Brooklyn hipster who, I suspected, had never hiked barefoot in his life.

In the end I went hiking by myself and we agreed to meet up later in the week yet truthfully, the guy was hanging on by a small thread.  I was not impressed with his barefoot hiking aspirations (nor by his attempt to make out with me after knowing me for ten minutes), but he had several things going for him.

1)  He asked me out in person. 

2)  He was a journalist.  If I ignored the words "part-time," "freelance," and "finance" that prefaced his job title, it sounded interesting.

3)  He had a flip phone.

4)  Corduroys.  Motherfucking corduroys.  They get me every time.

We met to watch the sun set in Volunteer Park and sat on the hill above the reservoir.  "I think your eyes are the same color as the water," he commented. 

I looked right back into his eyes. His pupils were dilated, and he wasn't blinking. "What drugs are you on right now?" I wondered out loud.

"I've smoked weed every day for the last four years."

I'd had my money on hallucinogens.  Can't always be right.

The date continued, and I concluded I was having a nice time overall.  He was easy to talk to, as most stoners are, and I felt comfortable.  We discussed love and family and careers, detachment from objects and age and Buddhist philosophy, books, travel.  He lived in Buenos Aires for a year and could carry a conversation in Spanish.  There were a lot of things I really, really liked about him, PLUS there was attraction.  This was a date that would have had me legitimately excited at one point in my dating career, but there was a problem:

I spent most of the time wishing I was in Portland with Crazy Chinatown Man.  Wanting to be with someone else on a date is a Big. Red. Flag.

I drove him home and this time, when he tried to kiss me, I didn't turn my head.  We made out in my car,  and he inched his hand up my inner thigh.

"Whoa, you're wearing a seatbelt."  He paused then laughed.  "You should keep it on.  It's protecting you."

I made a mental note to not smoke marijuana every day for four years.

That makes 75.